our digits covered in dust

i've never been a structurebetter crafted than the work of eagerschool children's palms,kneading clay intosmall monumentsalongsidemisshaped monstersand their neighbor's home,built in blue without windowspieced together in rough spheres.

if only we slept beneath a roofas simple and plain,we'd awake alike,to realize color's of no value when it's all the same shade.

i wish we could be those young architects, infantile gods,as once we were,with a complex to make things smallerand hearts warmerthoughts brightertears more shallowand cuts less severebut we're misshapen monstersstanding long enough to be shovedback into our plastic containersand placed back behind cupboards.